


Daffodils

by Ginny_Potter



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff, M/M, Melancholy, Summer 1899
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 12:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18180461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: A quiet afternoon, summer 1899.English poems and daffodils.





	Daffodils

**Author's Note:**

> Happy first day of spring!
> 
> Helloooo!  
> I'm so happy to get back to this ship after around three months spent in the same fandom but with Wolfstar mostly.  
> This is very short and just a little thing that popped into my mind because here in the UK daffodils are pretty much everywhere in this season. And when I say everywhere, I mean absolutely everywhere. So well, just now, after probably ten years since the first time I heard the poem by Wordsworth I got why he wrote like twenty-five verses on daffodils.
> 
> I am not a native speaker, so please point out any mistakes.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy it!

“When I was eight, I read an English poem.”

It was a windy day, the clouds ran like racing horses in the sky, taking the most peculiar shapes. The leaves of the majestic oak rustled loudly at every new gust. Two young men sat at its feet, one of them leaning against the trunk, the other on his palms, buried deep in the grass, behind him. He was the one who had broken the silence. His golden curls danced, freeing his broad forehead; his complexion was as pale as moonlight; his cheeks the faintest pink because of the wind and the sun, that made his skin shine so bright it was almost painful to watch. He was looking half-lidded at the other man, his fair eyelashes almost invisible.

“You did?”

His companion didn’t lift his gaze from the heavy tome he was reading. He was holding it with both hands, yet the corners of the pages fluttered like butterfly wings. His long auburn hair brushed slightly the visible roots of the huge tree.

 “ _Der Wolke gleich, zog ich einher_ ,” the blonde boy started.

The other man finally looked up, surprised. “That is a Muggle poem,” he said.

He lifted a corner of his lips and they exchanged an intense glance, as though they were sharing a secret joke.

“Die einsam zieht hoch übers Land…”

The book closed with a soft thump.

“Use your English, Gellert. It is an English poem after all.”

Gellert laughed, head tilted back, blond locks free in the summer breeze. “ _I wandered lonely as a Cloud / That floats on high o’er vales and Hills, / When all at once I saw a crowd, / A host, of golden Daffodils_ ,” he recited, impeccably, insisting on giving his words an excessive British flair.

The auburn-haired boy was smiling. He had his arms crossed above his knees. He was wearing brocade trousers, the flowery pattern extremely ornate; his white shirt had wispy sleeves that floated in the wind, twins to the clouds in the sky.

“Very good,” he said, slowly.

“Are you impressed, Albus?”

A mischievous frown was crossing Gellert’s face: he looked younger, almost a child.

“I am constantly impressed,” He answered.

The wind blew with rising strength and the papers scattered around Gellert which, until that moment, had seemed attracted to the ground by an invisible force, flew everywhere. Albus lifted his right arm: he was holding what looked like a twig of dark wood, similar to a baton, its hilt carved elegantly in a twist. A blast of blue light exploded from its tip and, as if time had stopped, the papers were floating mid-air, crystallised.

“Likewise,” Gellert answered, his voice a tone deeper.

“What made you think about the poem?” Albus asked, sliding back his wand inside his sleeve, without worrying about gathering the sheets.

“I always connected Great Britain with daffodils, I guess, since I read that poem,” Gellert shrugged, looking around at the fields: they were bright green, groups of colourful flowers scattered everywhere, but no sign of yellow daffodils. “So, I was expecting to find them everywhere.”

Albus smiled. “ _Continuous as the stars that shine, / And twinkle on the milky way, / They stretched in never-ending line / Along the margin of a bay: / Ten thousand saw I at a glance, / Tossing their heads in sprightly dance_ ,” he quoted, enjoying the way consonants and vocals rolled on his tongue, following the jumpy rhythm of the iambic tetrameter.

“Precisely,” Gellert moved a hand lazily and the papers piled themselves neatly on his side.

“They bloom in spring,” Albus explained, light-hearted. “To be more precise, they indicate the beginning of spring. Maybe next year…” his voice faded.

Gellert suddenly shifted position and leaned towards him, a hand on his knee and an enigmatic smile on his mouth. His eyes moved from Albus’ piercing blue eyes to his lips a couple of times before he spoke. “Next spring, I will show you the…” he hesitated, his brows furrowed. “…Schneeglöckchen.”

Albus breath hitched. “Snowdrops,” he supplied.

“And next summer…”

“… Edelweiss,” Albus finished for him, licking his lips.

They looked at each other, and, once more, it was as though they were conversing silently, as if there was no need for them to speak. Gellert’s hand was still firmly gripping Albus’ knee and they were so close that the wind managed to play with Albus’ fiery hair so that they danced around the both of them like blazing curtains.

“In the meantime…” Albus voice was barely a whisper, and a second after they were kissing, half-hidden, barely touching, eyelids fluttering. The dark wand was back in Albus’ hand as he pressed his lips more firmly against Gellert’s. His wrist tilted imperceptibly.

When they drew back, almost at the same time, and opened their eyes again, the ground covered by the shadow of the mighty oak was adorned with the brightest golden flowers: their rich, six-petal tepals were surmounted by cup-shaped coronas. Gellert’s eyes widened in astonishment and childish pleasure. He brushed the closest narcissus with his fingertips and chuckled slightly, enjoying the spectacle.

“Remarkable,” he mumbled after some time, looking up at Albus, who was trying to hide his gloating behind the book that he had re-opened.

They stayed there until the sun started to set, gold and red light painting the horizon, mirroring the colours at the top of the hill.

 

*

 

Gellert Grindelwald dropped his cloak on the nearest chair, sighing. He moved a hand and the gas lamps in the room shed a shaky, faint light on the dark wooden furniture. It was late and he had just come back to Nurmengard. He could still smell the burning scent of his charm. He wondered if Paris was burning. The craziest, maddest part of him hoped so. But, no, it wasn’t the moment to lose control. That had been a simple warning.

He ran a hand through his platinum hair, so different from the golden locks of his youth. His mismatched eyes fell on his mahogany desk, where a crystal case stood motionless, apparently harmless. Inside, a bright yellow flower fluctuated, floating mid-air, its petals forever blooming in an eternal spring.

The ghost of a forgotten smile danced on his lips for a split second, then someone knocked at the heavy door, he turned around, and it was gone.

 _For oft when on my couch I lie_  
_In vacant or in pensive mood,_  
 _They flash upon that inward eye_  
 _Which is the bliss of solitude,_  
 _And then my heart with pleasure fills,_  
 _And dances with the Daffodils._

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter/FB characters are not mine, I just have fun playing with people's feelings.  
> Daffodils is a poem by William Wordsworth. I used the 1815 version.


End file.
